


Kadara Suits You

by aiIenzo



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 11:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: Tactfully avoiding Reyes Vidal has become something of a past time.





	Kadara Suits You

**Author's Note:**

> Ryder is suave and cocky and arrogant when it appeals to him, but I want to see more of the Scott that's cracked around the edges. The Scott that can't sleep without waking up in a cold sweat. The Scott that loses his footing on stability and purpose when control is taken from him. I want damaged Scott, fight-mongering Scott, and a Scott that needs a place to fall apart.

Kadara suits him.

The reasonings for this revelation were stacked high against one another, each more dubious and arguable than the last. Maybe because he was young, full of a reckless, hellfire energy that had him quivering with morbid fascination during each tumultuous encounter with an outlaw. Maybe because he felt _useful_ here in a visceral way he ached for, something that left Lexi frowning during his psych evaluation and the Initiative questioning his tactics. Sure, he was experienced in combat and incredibly well-rounded, but youth still sung through his veins, amplifying his daring nature and fight mongering.

He was the Pathfinder, but he was also woefully unprepared for the job, and expectations were forming an insurmountable barricade as quickly as he tried to take his first tentative steps forward.  

But Kadara, he fit in here. In the badlands, his rash behavior was encouraged, and it allowed him an out he desperately needed. He had been able to find a particular kind of peace within the chaos of uncertainty that granted him comfort in his own skin, uniform notwithstanding.

Andromeda, despite its novelty and unknowns, hadn’t phased his resolve for adventure, and he knew he wasn’t looking to _belong_ anywhere. He didn’t need it.  But a spark of familiarity in the otherworldly badlands kept drawing him back, coercing him into finding excuses to dock for supplies or information they only just _barely_ needed. Vetra always accompanied him off the docking bay during these detours, a knowing glint in her eyes and a tease barely hidden under the clamor of the port.

This time is no different.

“Here to enjoy the sights again, Ryder?”

He snarls a half-assed warning at her, far too tense from weeks in space and underhanded questions to deal with the omniscient mirth in her expression.

Because fucking Vetra, with her eyes and ears all over Kadara, had figured out Scott’s rather obvious pattern months ago. Off the docks and straight to Kralla’s Song, where he’d bullshit with Umi for half an hour, coupling her snide remarks about the other patrons with his own lighthearted banter. Two shots down, and he’d wander over to the vendors, bartering for useless scrap he didn’t really intend to buy. He’d eventually settle on some trinket or another for Suvi or whatever illegal part Gil asked him to acquire, just to feel accomplished. And finally, as if by clockwork, Cora would radio him that they’re all secure at the docks, and Scott would relay what supplies they _actually_ needed.

He’d take a lift to the slums, casually, as though it might be an afterthought. Whatever calm he’d be able to fortify himself with would be fractured by the way he’d keep his eyes trained on movement and his inability to quell the static from his muscles. He’d climb the dirty, stained stairway to take note of the decreasing amount of bodies lying in the accumulated waste that's sprawled across the bedrock, tapping his gloved fingers on the railing. _Charlatans._ The outpost had just been settled, and while The Collective confirmed their best intentions, it would still be a long time before the term “free port” would be believed. His grip would tighten.

After pacing the slums for twenty minutes, his blood boiling as he snapped at any passerby who dared side-eye his rifle, he’d finally radio Kosta, who never needed any other invitation for violence than the order of “let’s go.”

Three hours of carnage would soothe his pulsing nerves, and Liam’s shouts, hisses of pain, and forcibly subdued laughter always made him feel less crazed than he actually was. They’re both a traumatic mess, nerves fried and shredded across the graphite rocks like Karada strove to paint itself in their accumulated breakdowns. Liam has his own reasons. Scott has his. And after the violence is over, with the danger to the port being bitten back just enough, they’d return to the Tempest, grazed with blood, while Scott avoids shooting a single glance towards Tartarus. He _won’t._

Tactfully avoiding Reyes Vidal has become something of a past time.

So he’s fully aware that Vetra sees far more than she says, far more than Scott would give her intuition credit for, but he’s still irritated when she keeps talking, despite his stiff silence. He knows exactly what she’s about to say, and it’s entirely his own fault so being so fucking _obvious_.

“Why don’t you just go see him?” she asks, her voice lowered and unknowingly maternal. “Pretty soon there won’t be any outlaws left for you to take out your frustration on.”

His muscles uncoil just slightly at her blatant concern. Underneath all those teasing remarks and backhand comments, she’s worried about him, and wants the situation resolved. However much she was able to assume, she’s somehow pinpointed exactly what he needs to hear, and Scott pushes his aggravation aside just long enough to appreciate what she gives him. No involvement, no interference. Just acceptance and a firm nudge in the right direction.

“Fine,” he grounds out, because there’s no other words to be said, and he’s apparently given her enough clues to unravel him down to core qualities. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?”

She doesn’t answer, only smiles, and for a moment he feels pained by the lack of verbal reassurance. He’s sat on this for weeks. _Months._ And nowhere in that long stretch of time during which he imagined confronting Reyes, did he even consider what he wants to say.

He’s really not cut out for this. For any of it.

They part ways as they always do, with Vetra sneaking off to whatever underground mercenary club she’s been itching to delve into, while Scott heads straight towards Kralla’s Song. A few of the locals stop their business to pointedly stare at him as he passes, clandestine whispers behind calloused fingers they think he doesn’t notice. Some of them look pleased to see him. Angaran, mainly. Others looked frightened. Some though, are still pissed, nothing but sneering expressions and trigger fingers, Sloane’s name plastered on their lips like she'd branded it there, to maintain her following even after her murder.

His fists clench. He remembers his anger, right alongside the glint of the sniper that did her in.

He’d parted quickly that day, before Sloane’s blood had even gone cold, letting Vidal’s words to his associates of “Karada Port is ours tonight,” trail faintly behind him as his pulse pounded in his head. He doesn’t regret not intervening in her death, but Reyes’ mockery of a pistol shot and that _look_ he’d stared Scott down with afterwards haunted his dreams, hungry and lucid. The email he’d received shortly afterwards cemented his concerns, and he’d archived the words _I’ll make sure Kadara stays ours_ both on his terminal and in his waking thoughts. _Thinking of you always,_ Vidal had boldly written. Scott wishes he could say differently.

Umi doesn’t look particularly happy to see him. She remains emotionally closed off, as always, which Scott has learned is a trained habit to avoid unwarranted attention from drunken outcasts. There’s not a lot of places to drink on Kadara, and she doesn’t have to flirt to get her money.

“Hey champ,” she greets, and Scott is instantly reminded that she’s well over 400 years old, and for all his universal experience in the world, he’s still a child in her eyes. He has very little to back up his defense for this, especially when he tells her to leave the bottle, childishly planning on drinking until his words will unfurl and write themselves across his face rather than wait for Scott to try and dig them out of his throat himself.

She watches as he throws back the bottle, tears stinging in his eyes because he’s still a bit of a bitch for this stronger stuff. It hits harder than the human liquor that he’s used to, and the taste lingers in his mouth, a sharp bite that sucker punches his gut into reminding him just how easily he can come undone.

 _(Bang,_ echoes in his head, and the appropriately timed parallels have him swigging his next drink before the first is even tolerated).

Umi smiles at him, something rare and treasured. “Well, with that kind of enthusiasm I hope you’re here to pay off _his_ tab as well.”

Scott lowers his bottle and cocks an eyebrow at her. “Don’t you two have some kind of a deal worked out? You booze him up, and he keeps you in the loop?”

Umi scoffs, the shit yellow lighting in the club reflecting the blue of her skin to make a pattern of remarkable hues. “Yeah right. I give him booze in the hopes that he keeps me _out_ of the loop.”

“Come on now, what good is a bartender that isn’t willing to lend an ear?”

She glowers at him, keeping her amusement hidden, and he smiles at the familiarity. His fingertips feel lighter as he brings the bottle to his lips again, social standing forgotten.

“Slow down kid,” she chastises lightly. “If you’re going to pay for it, you could at least try to enjoy it.”

He doesn’t comment, but takes her advice anyway, tapping his fingers on the slightly dusty bottle before looking up at her, aware that his eyesight tracking is starting to lose its competitive edge. Strong shit. She remains quiet, which lets him think. Lets him think about why he’s even _here_ . It’s something he’s been actively avoiding doing, because apparently, he can work through the goddamn exaltation of an entire species with enough reasoning and consideration, but a single fucking human being in the throes of a large population of vigilante shitheads who are insignificant in the face of a galaxy... _that_  has him tripping in his own thoughts.

It’s fucking _unfair._ He signed up for exploration. For adventure and discovery. Not for the disunion of feelings and purpose.

He narrows his eyes at the corner of the bar, where Reyes hand had brushed up against his in their haste to get information about Zia. If he stares hard enough, he can almost picture the Carnifex that Reyes keeps strapped against his side, modded and customized and nearly unrecognizable. _Butcher and executioner,_ the smuggler had muttered fondly. 

When Scott had first seen it, attached via a leather holster with Reyes’ tan, dexterous fingers dangling gently beside it, he had stared for so long, caught up in something he couldn’t put a name too. He’s heard the term “whirlwind” of emotions, but felt as though“brick wall” would be more apt in this instance. Reyes had clicked his tongue at him, trigger finger moving to point upwards, urging Scott to snap back to reality and meet Reyes’ eyes, a cocky grin bracketing the edges of his expression. The motherfucker muttered something about “bigger than most,” which Scott bracingly ignored.

After they had taken care of Zia and Scott’s share had been transferred, he promptly turned off Reyes channel frequency for three days. Consequences be damned. There were too many already.

“I think I’m gonna kill him,” he blurts out to the scratched surface of the bar, and then smiles, because it’s probably not the first time Umi has heard that here. Probably not even the first time _today_.

“Okay, sure,” she snorts in disbelief. When she sees his surprise at her unfazed nature, she sighs, leaning forward to support herself with her elbows on the table, forcing Scott to meet her gaze. “Hun, look. Every time you two are in here, I can see the fifteen different things you want to do to him dance across your face. Killing him is definitely one of them.”

She pushes the bottle back towards him, altering her advice now that he’s blown his cover -- and emotions -- wide open. He takes another drink, more bitter than before, but it goes down easier, and he can feel the diluted gold of high quality alcohol sticking itself to the inside of each of his veins. He’s well on his way to tipsy, and it’ll be a quick fall after that. He takes the swig carefully, giving her ample time to finish her thought, but she refuses to say another word until he prompts her with a sigh.

“...But?”

She studies him carefully for a moment, before grabbing his left arm gingerly and tapping his omnitool to life. He watches as she transfers a fair amount of Scott’s credits to herself, both for his bottle and for Reyes outstanding bar tab, before pulling away.

“ _But,_ if you kill him, you won’t get to enjoy those fourteen other things. Take the bottle to him. He owes you, so I suggest you make him pay.”

 

///

 

His comm remains quiet on his slightly inebriated walk to the slums. Normally, he’d be grateful, but it’s too unlikely to be coincidence, and it only serves to fuel his fire that everyone in his crew seems to know he needs to work through something, and that Kadara royalty is draped all over it. He’s half tempted to ask them what they think he’s doing there, with the slim hope that it would relate to violence. Vetra’s comments and Liam’s silence convince him otherwise.

Normally, it wouldn’t bother him. His relations had never been something he kept from public eye. But Reyes stands for everything he’s currently supposed to be dismantling, and it’s the dichotomy of wanting something so substantially antithetical for a Pathfinder to _have_ that’s tearing him apart.

It’s early. Too early for people to be crawling towards alcohol-induced comfort yet, so his walk is quiet. He hates it. He _needs_ the confrontation, and he’s begging for it to be anything other than Reyes himself. But the few people lingering against the railings give him no heed, keeping their heads bowed to their own problems. It’s so unusual. Maybe they see the challenge in his expression, fueled by the bottle that’s held loosely in his grasp, important only for what it’s worth. Maybe the King of Kadara has put a protective order on him, with the threat of torture the Initiative would never condone hanging over Scott’s head like a caution tape mockery of a crown.

Whatever they see, they leave him the fuck alone, abandoning him to walk the trek to Reyes private room in the Tartarus alone, bleakly hoping that the Charlatan would be out, too far away for Scott to have to endure this encounter.

The doorway looks the same as it always has; no addition of armed guards, no tighter security, no change whatsoever to make the “third-rate smuggler” look any more important than he ever had been. A turian slumped against the booth by the door mean-mugs him from afar, shadows cast over his eyes as the music thrums a new pulse through Scott’s system, but it doesn’t feel threatening. He ignores the stranger and mumbles to SAM to bypass Reyes’ door security.

“I’m detecting a moderately high alcohol content in your blood, Pathfinder,” SAM chirps dutifully in the back of his head. “Perhaps this is an encounter you’d prefer to have with a sober mind?”

“If I’d have preferred that, I wouldn’t started drinking in the first place, SAM,” he counters, fully aware of the turian’s eyes on him as he seemingly argues with himself. “You wouldn’t be trying to shoo me away unless you knew he was in there, so open the door.”

“Of course, Scott,” SAM relents, using the informal vernacular he saves for private conversations. “I will be here if you need assistance.”

With that final acquiescence, the glowing red display on the door briefly turns blue, and Scott jerks it open, stumbling slightly in his haste to get into the room and shut the door behind him, landing with his upper body pressed against the cool metallic relief of privacy.

He can hear the telltale rustle of a gun being pulled before he can even turn around, and he smiles into the doorway as it locks itself tightly underneath his cheek. God, the chill feels good. He’s way drunker than he thought he was.

He regains his composure and turns to face Reyes, holding his hands up by his head in an entirely unconvincing surrender, but Reyes is already flicking the safety back on that god-forsaken Carnifex, his eyes rolling heavenward.

“Pathfinder… that’s a good way to get shot.”

“Lots of good ways to get shot here,” Scott reasons, bringing the whiskey back up to his lips for a drink that he hopes looks way more nonchalant than he feels. “Gotta watch out for those snipers, especially.”

Reyes, of course, doesn’t take the bait, and remains sitting, pistol resting comfortably in his lap as he watches Scott meander slowly into the room. His eyes are weary, but sharp, full of a half-tamed desperation that Scott can’t quite pinpoint, and he resists doing a quick once-over to take in the minimal armor and rust-stained pops of color that Reyes seems to favor. They stay silent for a moment, comfortable in their friendly, if not strained, affinity, with Scott clearly working something over in his head while Reyes allows him the small freedom to just _focus_  before jostling him from his thoughts. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Ryder?”

Scott stops in front of him, annoyed at Reyes casual demeanor, and yet somehow, more annoyed at himself for expecting anything else. He holds out the whiskey, giving the bottle a little enticing shake.

“Thought I’d share. Certainly a _king_ is allowed a moment to unwind?”

Reyes smirks at him, standing up to take the proffered bottle with the beginnings of a small fire burning behind his pupils. “Ryder, we have done many things together, but I can’t confidently say any of them involve...unwinding.”

“Ah, well. Times change, don’t they?”

He’s meeting Reyes’ challenge head on, refusing to back down from the prolonged eye contact and allowing Reyes to push into his personal space with no resistance, rising to the encounter he’s realizing they’ve both been waiting to have. He knows the brazen confidence he feels is fueled entirely by alcohol and misplaced fury, but he’ll take the crutch.

Reyes hums in agreement, finally sliding the bottle from Scott’s fingers. “They certainly do.” He takes a long drink, far more accustomed to the swill than Scott’s virgin liver could ever hope to be, before nodding his head towards the datapad on the couch. “Interesting message I just got from Umi. Some kind samaritan just paid my bar tab in full.”

“Better a samaritan than a charlatan, right?”

Reyes grins at him, and where Scott’s pent up frustration and nerves are misplaced in his anger at Reyes, the man in front of him is level, the weariness he displayed before all but sapped from his expression as he roves over Ryder with hunger in his eyes.

“Why don’t you cut the shit, and tell me what you’re really here for.”

Scott’s stomach bottoms out as a tiny bit of sobriety worms its way through his consciousness just enough to make sense of the situation. He could have Reyes, here and now. He knows lust and need and _aching_ when he sees it, and the liquor that swims through his veins wills him to shut his eyes and fucking give in to it for once.

But unfortunately, he came here to pick a fight.

“I came to tell you that you’re a coward.”

Disappointment flashes across Reyes’ face, but he plays it off well. He steps away with a sigh, allowing himself another swig of whiskey that looks more like a preparation of things to come rather than the enticement it was before. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. Alright then, _Pathfinder,_ dissect me.”

Scott feels that familiar discontent rise up in him again, because he _hates_ smooth talkers. Those keen to the charismatic. He knows how easy it is to manipulate people if you’ve got the ability to put a few key words together with just the right spark of inflection and the twist of a coy, playful smile. It’s a tactic he’s embraced fully, entwining itself with a touch of sarcasm, and to see it thrown back at him is daunting. Alarming. And frankly, insulting.

“Fuck that. You know what this is about.”

Reyes looks away from him, and Scott can’t be bothered to give a damn about the flash of hurt that crosses his face. “Let me guess. Sloane?”

He doesn’t answer, but Reyes doesn’t need the validation, quickly firing off his questions, the dull cut of incredibility and disjointed frustration seeping in through words he tries to portray as sarcasm.

“The more you think about it," Reyes explains, "the more bothered you are, right? Maybe you think, why didn’t I just have her assassinated?” He turns back to look at Scott, a shrug on his shoulders. “Or -- what, better yet -- legitimately dueled her? Like in some terrible vid back on the Milky Way? Pistols at high noon, or whatever trash that was…”

“ _I_ could have handled her,” Scott grounds out, annoyed at Reyes' dismissal of his arguments before he was even able to voice him. The smuggler was good at reading people, and Scott is always slightly hurt when he’s no exception. “She could rot in jail on the Nexus.”

Reyes snorts in disbelief before swallowing another shot. “Oh yeah, so her followers could take her place? Rise up in a revolt and try to rescue her, or worse, carry on her legacy? You’re not that foolish, Ryder.”

“I would have taken care of any fallout--”

Reyes puts the bottle down on the table a bit harder than necessary, narrowing his eyes in on Scott’s deliberate wordplay. “What, in the few hours you manage to stop by during your week long expeditions? You’re going to be detailed on the ins and outs of Kadara, the underground mercs, the whispers in the streets? Give me a fucking break, Pathfinder. You’re bigger than this.”

“This is my _job_ ,” Scott argues, but he can feel his will to stake up offense falling, deflating, like the balloon of his intentions was leaking with each tiny stab of common sense Reyes was raining down on him. His argument is pathetic, his cover story is pathetic, and the only thing he has left is to faintly wish Reyes’ hadn’t seen through him faster than his own crew. “I make worlds hospitable, Reyes. I should’ve been the one to take her out, properly. It was on me.”

The atmosphere alters, with Reyes picking up on Scott’s failsafe, and there’s a moment of indecision that hovers between them. Scott waits to see the battle in Reyes eyes of whether to take him down one last peg, or to let Scott off easy, but it never happens. Instead, Reyes softens immediately, coy demeanor still intact, but his voice is littered in desperation now, in urgency.

“This needed to be settled internally, Ryder. Now, Sloane’s followers think her weak, and they’re more willing to embrace change. There could be no fallacies. I’m sorry that you think me a coward, I truly am, but I’d rather be a coward and a murderer than a bystander while people are beaten in the streets and a civil war is raged. Surely you can understand that.”

Scott nods, absently. His body feels light, his mind overwhelmed. The alcohol is working beautifully to remind him of the logic in the situation, but he still feels a pang of discontent within him. Of failure. Reyes reaches out and places his hands on Scott’s shoulders, silently beseeching him to focus on the now, to ease into the comfort of words.

“Karada is ours now, Ryder. I can guarantee it.”

“Kadara is _yours,_ your majesty,” Scott quips back, almost forlornly. “Don’t pretend it’s anything but.”

Surprisingly, Reyes smiles at him, and the pressure of his fingers on Scott's shoulders increase _just_ so. He sighs, his eyes roving over Scott in a way that makes him feel stripped and bare-bones and _evaluated_. That fire is lighting up behind Reyes' dilating pupils the longer he stares, and Scott swallows, trying to prepare himself for whatever Reyes is about to dish out.

“You know what this is all about, Pathfinder?" Reyes begins softly, his accent thick amidst the low tones. " _Control._ You were thrust into this job, that much I know, and you’ve spiraled your way through hell trying to deal with it.” He shrugs, offhandedly, like Scott’s shitty attitude adjustment is something he can logically explain. “Of course, you’re seeking out control wherever you can get it. Like this shit with Sloane.”

Scott opens his mouth to argue, slightly bewildered at the emotional change, but Reyes cuts him off, releasing Scott’s shoulder momentarily to hold up his hand.

“No -- wait, just listen. You’ve had to assert yourself since you’ve arrived on the Nexus, right? You’ve had to gain respect where it should’ve been considered a _right_ , and the only way you’re keeping your head on straight through all this fucking shit with the kett and death and being a goddamn savior, is to...well, to establish your control over it. To take reassurance wherever you can get it.”

Reyes pauses, trailing his eyes over every inch of Scott’s face, looking for something that Scott can only fathom. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him, and he continues, his voice turning down a pitch, a brush of sultry and dark.

“The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve been desperate to prove your worth. You’re here now, trying to pick a fight with me to establish some sort of dominance on Kadara; to prove you’re _better_ than some smuggler with power, because that’s what people need.  But do you know what _you_ need, Ryder?”

Scott shakes his head mutely, eyes widening as Reyes moves much too close. He can feel his own blood pulsing beneath his skin, and he can’t quite tell if time has stopped, or if his mind has relented on trying to catch up, floating through a haze of disbelief and anticipation. The gold that shimmers in the brown hues of Reyes’ eyes is startling, some sort of metaphor Scott is too wrapped up in the moment to try and ascertain, but when Reyes nudges him backwards, he goes, like all he had ever been waiting to do was receive the instruction.

“I think,” Reyes continues, voice greedy and inviting, the prickling of things to come seeping under Scott’s skin to warrant a flush of goosebumps. Reyes backs Scott up further. “...that you simply need…” He can feel his back hit the cold wall behind him, a sudden jolt against his rapidly heating skin. Reyes’ hands are moving deftly down his arms to pin his wrists against the wall, though incredulously, he has no desire to fight back against it. Reyes moves in, the ghost of his lips grazing against Scott’s neck, right above the collarbone, and Scott can feel his knees go weak. “...To relinquish that control.”

A switch goes off inside Scott’s head, as though he’s been starved for the opportunity, crazed for the absence of release. He groans in relief and turns his head, begging Reyes to meet him, which Reyes does with fervor, finally closing that precious inch of space between them.

The harsh push of Reyes’ lips against his sets off sparks behind his eyes, and Reyes frees one of his wrists to reach up and run his fingers across Scott’s cheek, as though he were a thing to be cherished. He tightens his grip on Scott’s other wrist, pressing him harder against the wall and tries to coax Scott’s tongue out of whatever shell-shocked abyss he’s fallen into. When Scott regains his senses enough to kiss back, trying to keep up with Reyes’ enthusiastic pace, he can feel the bastard smiling against him, like he’d won Kadara all over again.

Reyes’ thigh is slipping in between his legs, pressing up against him in a friction that shoots wildfire across his skin, and he immediately grinds against it, all pretense of power forgotten. He lets a whine escape him, barely audible, and pulls away from Reyes mouth to bury his face against his neck, losing himself to the beautiful, agonizing torture of rutting against too many layers of clothing.

“Good boy,” Reyes whispers breathlessly, gripping Scott’s sides tightly to urge him down, to ride the hard line of Reyes cock, hidden beneath his pants.

Scott groans at the words, too lost within novelty to feel ashamed. He’d never imagined himself in this situation, with his back against the wall at the mercy of a man who dared call him “boy.” But his already hardening cock gave a significant twitch of interest at the breathless encouragement, and Scott eagerly resigns himself to letting go completely, buried in the thick, gun-metal scent that leaves him in a pheromonal and blissed-out haze.

But Reyes grabs his chin with rough fingers, forcing Scott to meet him for another kiss, and he can feel the shaking plead in his own body, the soft keen and sigh that threatens to unravel him at each soft bite Reyes leave against his bottom lip.

He can hear “ _Reyes_ ,” coming from his mouth, a soft engrossment and moan that’s laced around disbelief. Of _gratefulness._ And Reyes’ reaction is instantaneous, turning Scott around with a soft growl to press him up against the wall, hands trailing down past his shoulders, his back, his ribs, to land with a firm grip on his hips. Reyes lips find the back of his neck, kissing his own secrets into the skin he finds there, heavy and promising.

When Reyes finally presses up close behind him, spreading his body heat across Scott's back, the relief Scott feels nearly floors him. Something about being held down, with Reyes’ arousal pressing hard against his ass, unwinds him in a way that being the dominant partner never could, and he’s desperate for more of it. He twists one arm around to frantically grab at the fabric of Reyes’s pants, urging him to thrust up against him. Reyes follows the command on autopilot, wrapping his arm around Scott’s chest to stabilize them as he grinds into Scott from behind, letting out a quiet gasp of pleasure before restraining himself.

“Careful,” Reyes warns, lips against the skin of Scott’s neck. “I have no problems taking you like this.”

Scott shivers, his mind slammed with the image of Reyes sliding his cock into him right here, pressed up against the wall like they couldn’t wait long enough to even make it to the couch. He’s straining against his pants at the thought.

“Do it,” he says sharply, and he can feel Reyes breath hitch behind him. “Right here. I want… I need it.”

Reyes groans and tightens his grip around Scott’s chest, wrapping both arms around every part of Scott he can press against, and it’s too close, too personal, and if he weren’t half as inebriated as he was, Scott would be entranced by what it means.

“Fuck,” Reyes mutters, his accent thick and heavy as he breathes Scott in. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

Scott smirks, despite himself, overcome with the scintillating knowledge that he’s gotten under Reyes skin just as much as the smuggler has gotten under his. It emboldens him. He rubs himself through his pants, just to relieve some of the pressure, and looks over his shoulder at Reyes, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes lust-blown.

“Come on, baby,” he teases, way more cocky than he feels. “You going to do this, or do we need to change places?”

Something dangerous flashes in Reyes’ eyes, and Scott loves it. He’s thriving on it. And when Reyes pushes him back against the wall, one hand disappearing from Scott’s side with the sound of a belt being undone, it’s all he can do to bite his lip and restrain the groan that’s dying to leave his throat. He follows Reyes lead and works on freeing his own neglected cock, sighing in relief as he pulls himself out and jerks with quick, tight strokes.

Reyes moves to push Scott’s pants down further, uncovering him just enough for what he needs, and Scott pushes back against him, desperate to feel more of Reyes skin, knowing that Reyes’ cock is exposed behind him and so achingly close to where he wants it to be.

Reyes curses under his breath in response, hands running underneath Scott's shirt to touch any part of the heated skin he can reach, like he's desperate for the contact. He presses their bodies together again, testing the boundaries of their intimacy, and buries his face into the bend of Scott’s neck.

“Calm down, you can have it,” he whispers, the shit-eating grin evident against Scott’s skin as he trusts lightly against Scott’s ass, moving his free hand down to run his fingers across the head of Scott’s dick, smearing the precome with his thumb.

Scott is shaking now, torn between pressing back against the thick cock behind him, or thrusting into the deft fingers jerking him off slowly, teasingly. He audibly groans when Reyes shifts his attentions to his balls, sly fingers caressing him and winding him up, promises of what’s to come.

“Reyes, _please_ ,” he begs, without prompting, and Reyes laughs darkly against him, tightening his fingers on Scott’s hip in approval.

“Oh I can _definitely_ get used to that,” he mutters, but Scott can hear the ragged edge to his voice, the imbalance before the fall, and if the slight shake of his hand as he moves his fingers towards Scott’s mouth is any indication, he’s as close to the edge as Scott feels.  

He sucks on Reyes fingers dutifully, his stomach twisting in on itself when he hears the appreciative intake of breath behind him. He makes a show of it, running his tongue across each digit, sucking slightly, biting the tips of Reyes fingers, everything to plant the curiosities of what else his mouth could be used for.

“Dirty boy,” Reyes mutters behind him, and a smart comeback is on the tip of Scott’s tongue before Reyes takes his revenge and slides his first finger in deep, without warning. Scott goes to jerk away in surprise, but Reyes holds his hips steady, moving to encircle Scott’s waist instead, keeping him grounded as he groans.

“Goddamn,” Reyes mutters, moving slowly in and out of Scott, lips pressed against his shoulder. “You’re so…” He loses his trail of thought, looking down to watch Scott shift and move himself further down onto Reyes finger.

“Go,” Scott mutters, and Reyes does without question, inserting the next finger and letting Scott adjust to it, planting soft kisses across the exposed skin of Scott’ neck. After a long moment of shifting and small gasps of surprising bursts of pleasure, Scott nods. “It’s fine. Please.”

But Reyes hesitates. “Ryder, you’re so tight. You ever done this before?”

For a horrible moment, he thinks Reyes is going to bail on him, but it passes quickly when he feels the arm around him tighten just a minuscule amount, a reassurance.

“No,” he answers honestly, feeling emptier when Reyes’ fingers slip out of him. “You’re the first.”

He can _feel_ the reaction that garners from Reyes, with the slightly surprised exhale as though Scott's just handed him a _gift_ , coupled with the twitch of Reyes' already straining cock.

“Fuck,” Reyes mumbles, lining himself up. “Scott -- I...I _need_ to be inside you.”

He can feel the head of Reyes’ precome soaked dick pressing against him, and shivers in anticipation. He’s bracing himself against the wall, steel panels that are now warm to the touch, held up only by Reyes’ arm underneath him and whatever purchase he can find on the slick metal under his hands and the ground under his shaking legs. He feels exposed, knowing that Reyes is staring down at him, feeling him tease his cock across his hole, catching on his rim just enough to make him desperate and needy.

“Reyes, please. _Please_ ,” he mumbles, turning his head to look over his shoulder. The sight that greets him nearly floors him. Reyes meets his eyes dead-on, pupils dark and blown wide with a flush covering his cheeks. He looks half-crazed, lost in the throes of fervid _want_ , and Scott thrives on knowing he drove him there.

Finally, once he knows that Scott’s eyes are locked on him, he pushes in, slow and deliberately, letting the long drag and sting soften into something tolerable until he is completely sheathed inside of him.

“Fuck,” Scott curses softly, looking away to bury his face in the crook of his arm, trying to overcome the sting of pain. Reyes is there in an instant, bringing his free hand to loop around Scott’s chest alongside the other, easing him into it, draping his body heat across Scott’s back. He’s mumbling things under his breath, things that make Scott’s breath hitch and his heart jump to his throat.

“You’re so good to me, you take me so well, mi querida. So tight for me, so needy… you ready, baby?

Scott registers the nickname, but files it away next to the soft kisses and careful intimacy, to be examined later. He nods his head, feeling more full than he ever expected to, and Reyes moves back just slightly, just far enough away to place a hand on Scott’s lower back to help guide them.

And then, he moves.

Scott’s eyes roll back into his head and he groans at the soft pull inside of him. Reyes precome is doing an excellent job of slicking him just enough to allow movement, while still retaining that rough and dirty tug of unpreparedness that Scott is craving. Reyes feels too big inside of him, blossoms of pain and pleasure shooting liquid fire through his body with each ragged heartbeat. The sensation is entirely new, and he’s desperate for it, pining for it, scraping his fingernails uselessly against the wall as Reyes lets out a filthy curse behind him, his hand moving from Scott’s back to lightly finger the sensitive area around his neck. He’s going so slow, so carefully, and it’s maddening to both of them.

“Scott. I can’t…”

He’s sounds strung out, overwhelmed, and somehow, Scott knows exactly what he means, and what he needs to hear.

“I trust you,” he breathes into the wall, nudging Reyes cautious fingers with his cheek in a quick affirmation.

Reyes growls softly in appreciation and his fingers tighten over Scott’s throat while his other arm curls protectively, greedily, around Scott’s waist.

Then, he sinks in _hard._

“Fuck!” Scott chokes out his curse, but Reyes is already pulling back out to slam home again, setting up a pace that screams of their prolonged patience and denial. Scott feels like he’s being torn in half, but it’s countered beautifully by the spasms of pleasure that wrack their way through him each time Reyes’ slides against the tight walls inside of him. The fingers around his throat only amplify the sensation, finding an anchoring grip in one of the most tender and intimate places in Scott’s body.

Being thrust into wildly by a man he’s known only briefly, a man who has proved himself to be deceitful, murderous, and dangerously ambitious, turns out to be the most impressive aphrodisiac he’s ever known. And the danger of subjecting himself to that man, letting him take full control and fuck into him like a toy, hand locked around his throat, just an inch away from pressing in just the right spot to render him unconscious, succumbs him entirely, leaving him completely sated from the desperation he’s been consumed by.   

Reyes is losing control behind him, broken Spanish littering the edges of Scott’s name as he fucks into him ruthlessly, like they’d been waiting for it, like it had been missed. The feeling of being lost in sensation, of just _taking_ what he’s given, lights Scott up like a live-wire, and he can feel the edge of the horizon slipping closer, knowing he’s only moments away from barreling over it.

“Reyes--!”

Reyes adjusts instantly, moving his hand to curl around Scott’s neglected dick, and Scott sees fucking stars behind his eyes, a debilitating combination of Reyes’ taking what he wants from him while ensuring Scott follows him over the edge.

“Come with me,” Reyes breathes, completely undone and entirely overwhelmed, and Scott loses it. He comes across Reyes’ hand with a strangled cry on his lips, a complete white-out that encompasses all the satisfaction of every moment his traitorous mind had left him wondering what it would feel like to have Reyes pressed against him. Reyes follows him, pressing in deep and clinging tightly to Scott, as though he’d never trust anyone else to support him as he fell into complete vulnerability, spilling himself inside of Scott like he was staking a claim, soft compliments still whispered from his lips.

They stay like that, a moment extended in time, wound together and radiating heat and gratification. Reyes is the first to move, peeling himself from Scott’s trembling body to pull out gingerly, pressing an appreciative kiss to the back of Scott’s sweat-soaked shirt.

Scott straightens himself up, trying to will the shaking in his body to subside so he can stand properly, intent on ignoring the sting of pain that shoots up his back as he moves into a more dignified position. He’s barely refastened his pants before Reyes is on him, pulling him into a kiss that he immediately sinks his entire body into.

There’s no heat behind it, only an echo of the crazed desire that led them to this conclusion, but there’s a passion in it that leaves him stunned, quietly dissolving into a grateful mess as Reyes kisses him like he _means_ it, like it might be his last opportunity to do so. There’s a hand on his cheek, caressing his skin fondly before Reyes finally pulls away.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, staring into Scott’s eyes like he would be able to find the broken man inside of them. Find him and _fix_ him.

Scott smiles, and he's relieved to find he doesn't need to fake it. “No. Well, no more than I expected. But, um. Thank you.”

He shifts awkwardly, waiting for the moment when Reyes will pull back and end the delicate intimacy that’s only in the beginning stages of infancy. He’s bracing himself for it, building up his strength to avoid succumbing to the distant pang of disappointment, but it never happens. Reyes maintains his contact, keeping Scott as close as possible, as though his desire to be near him had nothing to do with their insurmountable attraction.

“You will _never_ need to thank me for that, Ryder,” Reyes grins, and though he’s back to the vernacular Scott has come to know from associates, there’s a glimmer of something else there -- a tease within a professional air, and Scott is nearly winded with relief. _There’s something there_. He came looking for something, and he _found_ it.

“Although, I must admit that I’m surprised,” Reyes continues, running his thumb across the bend in Scott’s wrist. “After watching you agonize over it for months outside of Tartarus, I never thought you’d actually come confront me.”

Scott jolts slightly in embarrassment. “You _knew_ about that?”

Reyes scoffs, adjusting Scott’s shirt where it had wrinkled up against his stomach. “Please. I’m the king of Kadara, Pathfinder. And besides, I can never resist watching you pick a fight with the locals,” he winks, and Scott laughs lightly.

“Look, about the thing with Sloane--”

But Reyes waves him off. “Don’t start. I can’t fathom the turmoil your head must be in, but whatever reassurance I can offer you, I’m happy to give it. If you will something for Kadara, I’ll make it happen. We're a team here, Scott.”

Scott raises an eyebrow. “Reassurance? Is that what we’re calling this?”

“Well,” Reyes counters, his voice lowering as he runs his fingers across the back of Scott’s neck, eliciting an enticing shiver. “Do you feel reassured?”

Scott leans into the touch automatically, clinging to that gun-metal scent that’s now laced with the sweet smell of sex. “I feel a lot of things, Reyes,” he admits, and it’s softer than he imagined it to be in his head. He feels more vulnerable now than he did five minutes ago, bent over and taken.

But Reyes is there, gathering up his insecurities before they can flee from the room and out into the vast expanses of Andromeda where the population can find them. His arm curls around Scott’s waist and he kisses Scott’s hand delicately, seemingly just because he feels allowed to.

“Good,” he mutters back, a genuine smile on his face. “But out of concern for your well-being, I ask that you come visit me whenever you need to work through things. I’d rather avoid you being hurt because you’re too prideful.”

Scott grins and rests his forehead against Reyes, basking in the absolute security he feels, finally at peace with accepting it from the least secure source he’s ever known. But Reyes shifts slightly, and Scott can _feel_ the uncertain questions that are haunting him before Reyes even cautiously give them voice.

“Perhaps… maybe, I can be the only one you visit?”

Scott falters, both because he’s never seen Reyes more hesitant, hanging on the changes in Scott's expression like they hold more answers than he dared ask, and because from the very beginning, he imagined this encounter going entirely differently, despite what he wanted.

“Are you asking me for exclusively, Reyes?” Scott teases, trying to hide the pleasant shock that's steadily filling all the empty parts within him.

Reyes shrugs, nonchalant, but the ghost of a smile lingers on the edges of his mouth, and it's all Scott can do to lean in and kiss him, overcome with the knowledge that he might be able to do it freely, without questioning the cons and re-evaluating what led him there.

“And here I thought you were going to be difficult,” Scott remarks, pulling away just enough to speak, content with sharing his air with the man before him, his heart pounding in unexpected, unaltered joy.

“I'm just looking out for my kingdom, Pathfinder. After all, every king needs a --”

“Finish that sentence Vidal, and I will paint this room in your blood.”

Reyes laughs and kisses him through an honest smile, his arms winding around Scott to pull him close.

“Kadara suits you, Scott.”

But they've both known that for a long time now. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
